Tiny Earthquakes

The big gay house across the street is having a party. 

Smooth Operator travels through spring air and 

into my window as 

I lay in bed picturing a sleep that just wont come. 

Lately I picture other peoples lives like they’re
Francesca Lia Block novels. 

Filled with bohemian smells and textures 

and adventures.

While I sit in my tower 

and work my day job 

and every sense just ends up tasting or smelling or feeling like styrofoam. 

I think about parties in my past, 

sour sticky wine 

and crippling crushes on boys who were terrified by my desire. 

I think about how the party is over and it’s been traded for 

holy basil tea and meditation. 

Mostly I’m calm about this change 

but some nights I lay awake 

missing the jagermeister and arguments with strangers about the meaning of life, 

and watching the sun rise, 

and pulling my bass out of its case in a dirty bar to get up on stage and have at it. 

So much love.

So much love in this new life that I never knew before, 

because I didn’t know how to love others. 

Surely that would make me want to stay and be grateful 

but it’s these flash reverberations from the past that take me back. 

Like tiny earthquakes inside me 

exploding beads of longing that pervade to my fingertips. 

Tonight I get out of bed and sit on my deck smoking cigarettes watching that house. 

Tiny ears perking up trying to catch bits of conversation. 

Tiny moments stollen vicariously and sucked into my lungs with smoke. 

Tiny earthquakes in my chest splitting and rearranging me.

Here’s the truth,

I’m afraid of this me I am becoming.

I’m afraid of all the things I’ve said that I can do or be.

I’m afraid of pressure, of love, afraid to lose.

I’m afraid of failure. 

Sometimes I drift into times when I didn’t have to be anybody. 

Times when I cast wishes into whisky bottles and hoped for the best. 

Times when I felt like I had time. 

Growth and rebirth again and again as I shed my skin emerge anew.

Tiny earthquakes repeating ad infinitum.